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18 min

About this time an ambitious young reporter from New York arrived one morning at Gatsby’s door and asked him if he had anything to say.

Around this time, an ambitious young reporter from New York showed up at Gatsby’s door one morning. He asked Gatsby if he had anything to say.

“Anything to say about what?” inquired Gatsby politely.

“Anything to say about what?” Gatsby asked politely.

“Why—any statement to give out.”

“Well, any statement to share.”

It transpired after a confused five minutes that the man had heard Gatsby’s name around his office in a connection which he either wouldn’t reveal or didn’t fully understand. This was his day off and with laudable initiative he had hurried out “to see.”

After five confusing minutes, we learned that the man had heard Gatsby’s name mentioned at his office. He either wouldn’t explain the connection or didn’t fully understand it. It was his day off, and he had shown admirable initiative by hurrying out “to see.”

It was a random shot, and yet the reporter’s instinct was right. Gatsby’s notoriety, spread about by the hundreds who had accepted his hospitality and so become authorities upon his past, had increased all summer until he fell just short of being news. Contemporary legends such as the “underground pipeline to Canada” attached themselves to him, and there was one persistent story that he didn’t live in a house at all, but in a boat that looked like a house and was moved secretly up and down the Long Island shore. Just why these inventions were a source of satisfaction to James Gatz of North Dakota, isn’t easy to say.

It was a shot in the dark, yet the reporter’s instinct was right. Gatsby’s notoriety had grown all summer, spread by the hundreds who had enjoyed his hospitality. Having been his guests, they had become authorities on his past. By now, he was just short of being newsworthy. Popular legends of the day, such as the “underground pipeline to Canada,” became attached to him. One persistent story claimed he didn’t live in a house at all, but in a boat that resembled a house. The boat was secretly moved up and down the Long Island shore. Why these made-up stories pleased James Gatz of North Dakota isn’t easy to say.

James Gatz—that was really, or at least legally, his name. He had changed it at the age of seventeen and at the specific moment that witnessed the beginning of his career—when he saw Dan Cody’s yacht drop anchor over the most insidious flat on Lake Superior. It was James Gatz who had been loafing along the beach that afternoon in a torn green jersey and a pair of canvas pants, but it was already Jay Gatsby who borrowed a rowboat, pulled out to the Tuolomee, and informed Cody that a wind might catch him and break him up in half an hour.

James Gatz was his real name, or at least his legal name. He had changed his name at seventeen, at the very moment his career began. That was when he saw Dan Cody’s yacht anchor over the most treacherous shallow spot on Lake Superior. James Gatz had been lazing along the beach that afternoon in a torn green jersey and canvas pants. But he was already Jay Gatsby when he borrowed a rowboat and rowed out to the Tuolomee. He warned Cody that a wind could catch the yacht and break it apart within half an hour.

I suppose he’d had the name ready for a long time, even then. His parents were shiftless and unsuccessful farm people—his imagination had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself. He was a son of God—a phrase which, if it means anything, means just that—and he must be about His Father’s business, the service of a vast, vulgar, and meretricious beauty. So he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen-year-old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end.

I suppose he’d had the name ready for a long time, even then. His parents were lazy, unsuccessful farmers. In his imagination, he had never really accepted them as his parents at all. The truth was that Jay Gatsby of West Egg, Long Island, came from his own ideal vision of himself. He was a son of God. If that phrase means anything, it means exactly that. And he had to be doing his Father’s work, serving a vast, vulgar beauty, showy but false. So he invented exactly the kind of Jay Gatsby a seventeen-year-old boy would be likely to invent. And he stayed faithful to that vision to the end.

For over a year he had been beating his way along the south shore of Lake Superior as a clam-digger and a salmon-fisher or in any other capacity that brought him food and bed. His brown, hardening body lived naturally through the half-fierce, half-lazy work of the bracing days. He knew women early, and since they spoiled him he became contemptuous of them, of young virgins because they were ignorant, of the others because they were hysterical about things which in his overwhelming self-absorption he took for granted.

For over a year, he had worked his way along the south shore of Lake Superior. He dug clams, fished for salmon, or did any other work that earned him food and a bed. His tanned body grew tougher, adapting naturally to work that was half intense, half lazy, in the invigorating days. He had experience with women early, and because they spoiled him, he came to look down on them. He scorned young virgins because they were ignorant. He scorned other women because they became hysterical over things he took for granted in his overwhelming self-absorption.

But his heart was in a constant, turbulent riot. The most grotesque and fantastic conceits haunted him in his bed at night. A universe of ineffable gaudiness spun itself out in his brain while the clock ticked on the washstand and the moon soaked with wet light his tangled clothes upon the floor. Each night he added to the pattern of his fancies until drowsiness closed down upon some vivid scene with an oblivious embrace. For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy’s wing.

But his heart was in constant, violent turmoil. The strangest, most fantastical ideas haunted him as he lay in bed at night. A universe of indescribable, dazzling splendor unfolded in his mind while the clock ticked on the washstand. The moon drenched his tangled clothes on the floor in watery light. Each night he added to his fantasies until sleep wrapped some vivid scene in a forgetful embrace. For a while, these daydreams gave his imagination an outlet. They offered a satisfying hint that reality was unreal. They promised that the solid rock of the world rested securely on a fairy’s wing.

An instinct toward his future glory had led him, some months before, to the small Lutheran College of St. Olaf’s in southern Minnesota. He stayed there two weeks, dismayed at its ferocious indifference to the drums of his destiny, to destiny itself, and despising the janitor’s work with which he was to pay his way through. Then he drifted back to Lake Superior, and he was still searching for something to do on the day that Dan Cody’s yacht dropped anchor in the shallows alongshore.

A sense of his future glory had led him, some months earlier, to the small Lutheran College of St. Olaf’s in southern Minnesota. He stayed for two weeks, dismayed by the college’s fierce indifference to the drums of his destiny, and to destiny itself. He also despised the janitorial work he was supposed to do to pay his way through college. Then he drifted back to Lake Superior. He was still looking for something to do when Dan Cody’s yacht dropped anchor in the shallow water near shore.

Cody was fifty years old then, a product of the Nevada silver fields, of the Yukon, of every rush for metal since seventy-five. The transactions in Montana copper that made him many times a millionaire found him physically robust but on the verge of soft-mindedness, and, suspecting this, an infinite number of women tried to separate him from his money. The none too savoury ramifications by which Ella Kaye, the newspaper woman, played Madame de Maintenon to his weakness and sent him to sea in a yacht, were common property of the turgid journalism in 1902. He had been coasting along all too hospitable shores for five years when he turned up as James Gatz’s destiny in Little Girl Bay.

Cody was fifty years old then, shaped by the Nevada silver fields, the Yukon, and every metal rush since 1875. The Montana copper deals made him a millionaire many times over. He was still physically strong, but his mind was beginning to weaken. Suspecting his weakness, countless women tried to part him from his money. Ella Kaye, the newspaper woman, played Madame de Maintenon, using her influence over him to exploit his weakness. Through a series of shady dealings, she sent him to sea in a yacht. The overblown journalism of 1902 widely reported those dealings. For five years, he had cruised along shores that welcomed him all too warmly. Then he appeared in Little Girl Bay as James Gatz’s destiny.

To young Gatz, resting on his oars and looking up at the railed deck, that yacht represented all the beauty and glamour in the world. I suppose he smiled at Cody—he had probably discovered that people liked him when he smiled. At any rate Cody asked him a few questions (one of them elicited the brand new name) and found that he was quick and extravagantly ambitious. A few days later he took him to Duluth and bought him a blue coat, six pairs of white duck trousers, and a yachting cap. And when the Tuolomee left for the West Indies and the Barbary Coast, Gatsby left too.

Young Gatz rested on his oars and looked up at the yacht’s railed deck. To him, the yacht represented all the beauty and glamour in the world. I suppose he smiled at Cody. He had probably discovered that people liked him when he smiled. In any case, Cody asked him a few questions. (One question brought out the brand-new name.) Cody found him quick-witted and extraordinarily ambitious. A few days later, Cody took him to Duluth. He bought Gatz a blue coat, six pairs of white canvas trousers, and a yachting cap. And when the Tuolomee left for the West Indies and the Barbary Coast, Gatsby left too.

He was employed in a vague personal capacity—while he remained with Cody he was in turn steward, mate, skipper, secretary, and even jailor, for Dan Cody sober knew what lavish doings Dan Cody drunk might soon be about, and he provided for such contingencies by reposing more and more trust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five years, during which the boat went three times around the Continent. It might have lasted indefinitely except for the fact that Ella Kaye came on board one night in Boston and a week later Dan Cody inhospitably died.

He worked as a personal assistant, though his duties were never clearly defined. While he stayed with Cody, he served in turn as steward, mate, skipper, secretary, and even jailer. When sober, Dan Cody knew what extravagant things he might soon get up to when drunk. So he prepared for those possibilities by placing more and more trust in Gatsby. The arrangement lasted five years, during which the boat traveled around the Continent three times. The arrangement might have lasted indefinitely, except that Ella Kaye came aboard one night in Boston. A week later, Dan Cody rather inhospitably died.

I remember the portrait of him up in Gatsby’s bedroom, a grey, florid man with a hard, empty face—the pioneer debauchee, who during one phase of American life brought back to the Eastern seaboard the savage violence of the frontier brothel and saloon. It was indirectly due to Cody that Gatsby drank so little. Sometimes in the course of gay parties women used to rub champagne into his hair; for himself he formed the habit of letting liquor alone.

I remember his portrait upstairs in Gatsby’s bedroom, showing a gray, red-faced man with a hard, empty face. He was a pioneer of reckless indulgence. During one period in American life, he brought the brutal violence of frontier brothels and saloons back to the Eastern seaboard. Cody was indirectly responsible for Gatsby drinking so little. Sometimes, during lively parties, women would rub champagne into his hair. Gatsby himself developed the habit of leaving alcohol alone.

And it was from Cody that he inherited money—a legacy of twenty-five thousand dollars. He didn’t get it. He never understood the legal device that was used against him, but what remained of the millions went intact to Ella Kaye. He was left with his singularly appropriate education; the vague contour of Jay Gatsby had filled out to the substantiality of a man.

And it was from Cody that he inherited twenty-five thousand dollars. He never received the money. He never understood the legal maneuver used against him, but all that remained of Cody’s millions went to Ella Kaye. He was left with an education especially suited to him. The vague outline of Jay Gatsby had taken shape as a fully formed man.

He told me all this very much later, but I’ve put it down here with the idea of exploding those first wild rumours about his antecedents, which weren’t even faintly true. Moreover he told it to me at a time of confusion, when I had reached the point of believing everything and nothing about him. So I take advantage of this short halt, while Gatsby, so to speak, caught his breath, to clear this set of misconceptions away.

He told me all this much later, but I’ve written it here to disprove those first wild rumors about his background. Those rumors weren’t even remotely true. Besides, he told me all this during a confusing time, when I had come to believe everything and nothing about him. So I’m using this brief pause, while Gatsby caught his breath, so to speak, to clear up these misunderstandings.

It was a halt, too, in my association with his affairs. For several weeks I didn’t see him or hear his voice on the phone—mostly I was in New York, trotting around with Jordan and trying to ingratiate myself with her senile aunt—but finally I went over to his house one Sunday afternoon. I hadn’t been there two minutes when somebody brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. I was startled, naturally, but the really surprising thing was that it hadn’t happened before.

My involvement in his affairs also came to a pause. For several weeks I didn’t see him or hear his voice on the phone. I was mostly in New York, going around with Jordan and trying to win over her senile aunt. But finally, one Sunday afternoon, I went over to his house. I hadn’t been there two minutes when someone brought Tom Buchanan in for a drink. Naturally, I was startled, but the real surprise was that Tom hadn’t been brought over before.

They were a party of three on horseback—Tom and a man named Sloane and a pretty woman in a brown riding-habit, who had been there previously.

The three riders were Tom, a man named Sloane, and a pretty woman in a brown riding outfit. The woman had been there before.

“I’m delighted to see you,” said Gatsby, standing on his porch. “I’m delighted that you dropped in.”

“I’m so glad to see you,” said Gatsby, standing on his porch. “I’m so glad you stopped by.”

As though they cared!

As if they cared!

“Sit right down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” He walked around the room quickly, ringing bells. “I’ll have something to drink for you in just a minute.”

“Sit down. Have a cigarette or a cigar.” He walked quickly around the room, ringing bells. “I’ll have a drink for you in just a minute.”

He was profoundly affected by the fact that Tom was there. But he would be uneasy anyhow until he had given them something, realizing in a vague way that that was all they came for. Mr. Sloane wanted nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all, thanks… I’m sorry—

Tom’s presence affected him deeply. But he would feel uneasy anyway until he had given his visitors something. He vaguely understood that receiving something was all they had come for. Mr. Sloane wanted nothing. A lemonade? No, thanks. A little champagne? Nothing at all, thanks… I’m sorry…

“Did you have a nice ride?”

“Very good roads around here.”

“The roads around here are very good.”

“I suppose the automobiles—”

“I suppose the cars...”

“Yeah.”

Moved by an irresistible impulse, Gatsby turned to Tom, who had accepted the introduction as a stranger.

Driven by an impulse he couldn’t resist, Gatsby turned to Tom. Tom had accepted the introduction as though they were strangers.

“I believe we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.”

“I think we’ve met somewhere before, Mr. Buchanan.”

“Oh, yes,” said Tom, gruffly polite, but obviously not remembering. “So we did. I remember very well.”

“Oh, yes,” said Tom, his voice rough but polite, though he clearly didn’t remember. “So we did. I remember very well.”

“About two weeks ago.”

“That’s right. You were with Nick here.”

“I know your wife,” continued Gatsby, almost aggressively.

“I know your wife,” Gatsby went on, almost aggressively.

“That so?”

“Is that so?”

Tom turned to me.

“You live near here, Nick?”

“Do you live near here, Nick?”

“Next door.”

“That so?”

“Is that so?”

Mr. Sloane didn’t enter into the conversation, but lounged back haughtily in his chair; the woman said nothing either—until unexpectedly, after two highballs, she became cordial.

Mr. Sloane didn’t join the conversation but leaned back arrogantly in his chair. The woman said nothing either, until she unexpectedly became friendly after two highballs.

“We’ll all come over to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested. “What do you say?”

“We’ll all come to your next party, Mr. Gatsby,” she suggested. “What do you think?”

“Certainly; I’d be delighted to have you.”

“Of course. I’d love to have you.”

“Be ver’ nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well—think ought to be starting home.”

“That would be very nice,” said Mr. Sloane, without gratitude. “Well, I think we ought to head home.”

“Please don’t hurry,” Gatsby urged them. He had control of himself now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you—why don’t you stay for supper? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped in from New York.”

“Please don’t rush off,” Gatsby urged them. He had regained control of himself now, and he wanted to see more of Tom. “Why don’t you, why don’t you stay for dinner? I wouldn’t be surprised if some other people dropped by from New York.”

“You come to supper with me,” said the lady enthusiastically. “Both of you.”

“Come have dinner with me,” the woman said enthusiastically. “Both of you.”

This included me. Mr. Sloane got to his feet.

This included me. Mr. Sloane stood up.

“Come along,” he said—but to her only.

“Come on,” he said, but only to her.

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. Lots of room.”

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I’d love to have you. There’s plenty of room.”

Gatsby looked at me questioningly. He wanted to go and he didn’t see that Mr. Sloane had determined he shouldn’t.

Gatsby gave me a questioning look. He wanted to go, and he didn’t realize Mr. Sloane had decided he shouldn’t.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to,” I said.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to,” I said.

“Well, you come,” she urged, concentrating on Gatsby.

“Well, you come,” she urged, focusing on Gatsby.

Mr. Sloane murmured something close to her ear.

Mr. Sloane said something quietly close to her ear.

“We won’t be late if we start now,” she insisted aloud.

“We won’t be late if we leave now,” she insisted aloud.

“I haven’t got a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just a minute.”

“I don’t have a horse,” said Gatsby. “I used to ride in the army, but I’ve never bought a horse. I’ll have to follow you in my car. Excuse me for just a minute.”

The rest of us walked out on the porch, where Sloane and the lady began an impassioned conversation aside.

The rest of us walked out onto the porch. There, Sloane and the woman began a passionate conversation off to one side.

“My God, I believe the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she doesn’t want him?”

“My God, I think the man’s coming,” said Tom. “Doesn’t he know she doesn’t want him?”

“She says she does want him.”

“She has a big dinner party and he won’t know a soul there.” He frowned. “I wonder where in the devil he met Daisy. By God, I may be old-fashioned in my ideas, but women run around too much these days to suit me. They meet all kinds of crazy fish.”

“She’s having a big dinner party, and he won’t know anyone there.” He frowned. “I wonder where the hell he met Daisy. By God, I may have old-fashioned ideas, but women go out too much these days for my liking. They meet all kinds of weird characters.”

Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the lady walked down the steps and mounted their horses.

Suddenly Mr. Sloane and the woman walked down the steps and got on their horses.

“Come on,” said Mr. Sloane to Tom, “we’re late. We’ve got to go.” And then to me: “Tell him we couldn’t wait, will you?”

“Come on,” Mr. Sloane said to Tom. “We’re late. We have to go.” Then he said to me: “Tell him we couldn’t wait, will you?”

Tom and I shook hands, the rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they trotted quickly down the drive, disappearing under the August foliage just as Gatsby, with hat and light overcoat in hand, came out the front door.

Tom and I shook hands. The rest of us exchanged a cool nod, and they trotted quickly down the driveway. They disappeared under the August leaves just as Gatsby came out the front door, holding his hat and light overcoat.

Tom was evidently perturbed at Daisy’s running around alone, for on the following Saturday night he came with her to Gatsby’s party. Perhaps his presence gave the evening its peculiar quality of oppressiveness—it stands out in my memory from Gatsby’s other parties that summer. There were the same people, or at least the same sort of people, the same profusion of champagne, the same many-coloured, many-keyed commotion, but I felt an unpleasantness in the air, a pervading harshness that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I had merely grown used to it, grown to accept West Egg as a world complete in itself, with its own standards and its own great figures, second to nothing because it had no consciousness of being so, and now I was looking at it again, through Daisy’s eyes. It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment.

Tom was clearly upset that Daisy was going out alone, because the following Saturday night he accompanied her to Gatsby’s party. Perhaps his presence made the evening feel strangely oppressive. That evening stands out in my memory from Gatsby’s other parties that summer. The people were the same, or at least the same sort of people. There was the same abundance of champagne, the same commotion in every color and pitch. But I felt something unpleasant in the air, a harshness everywhere that hadn’t been there before. Or perhaps I had simply grown used to it all. I had come to accept West Egg as a world of its own, with its own standards and important people. It was second to nothing because it had no awareness of being second to anything. And now I was seeing that world again through Daisy’s eyes. It is always sad to see through new eyes things you have worked to get used to.

They arrived at twilight, and, as we strolled out among the sparkling hundreds, Daisy’s voice was playing murmurous tricks in her throat.

They arrived at dusk. As we strolled out among the glittering hundreds, Daisy’s voice played soft, murmuring tricks in her throat.

“These things excite me so,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me any time during the evening, Nick, just let me know and I’ll be glad to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or present a green card. I’m giving out green—”

“These things excite me so,” she whispered. “If you want to kiss me anytime tonight, Nick, just let me know. I’ll be glad to arrange it for you. Just mention my name. Or show a green card. I’m handing out green...”

“Look around,” suggested Gatsby.

“Look around,” Gatsby suggested.

“I’m looking around. I’m having a marvellous—”

“I’m looking around. I’m having a wonderful...”

“You must see the faces of many people you’ve heard about.”

“You must see the faces of lots of people you’ve heard about.”

Tom’s arrogant eyes roamed the crowd.

Tom’s arrogant gaze swept over the crowd.

“We don’t go around very much,” he said; “in fact, I was just thinking I don’t know a soul here.”

“We don’t get out much,” he said. “In fact, I was just thinking I don’t know anyone here.”

“Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby indicated a gorgeous, scarcely human orchid of a woman who sat in state under a white-plum tree. Tom and Daisy stared, with that peculiarly unreal feeling that accompanies the recognition of a hitherto ghostly celebrity of the movies.

“Perhaps you know that lady.” Gatsby pointed to a gorgeous woman, as exotic as an orchid and barely human. She sat like royalty under a white-plum tree. Tom and Daisy stared, feeling the strange unreality of recognizing a movie celebrity they had known only as a ghostly image.

“She’s lovely,” said Daisy.

“She’s lovely,” Daisy said.

“The man bending over her is her director.”

“The man leaning over her is her director.”

He took them ceremoniously from group to group:

He led them from group to group with a sense of ceremony:

“Mrs. Buchanan… and Mr. Buchanan—” After an instant’s hesitation he added: “the polo player.”

“Mrs. Buchanan… and Mr. Buchanan…” He hesitated for a moment, then added: “the polo player.”

“Oh no,” objected Tom quickly, “not me.”

“Oh no,” Tom quickly protested, “not me.”

But evidently the sound of it pleased Gatsby for Tom remained “the polo player” for the rest of the evening.

But Gatsby clearly liked the sound of it, because Tom remained “the polo player” for the rest of the evening.

“I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man—what was his name?—with the sort of blue nose.”

“I’ve never met so many celebrities,” Daisy exclaimed. “I liked that man. What was his name? The one with the sort of blue nose.”

Gatsby identified him, adding that he was a small producer.

Gatsby said who he was and added that he was a small-time producer.

“Well, I liked him anyhow.”

“Well, I liked him anyway.”

“I’d a little rather not be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly, “I’d rather look at all these famous people in—in oblivion.”

“I’d slightly prefer not to be the polo player,” said Tom pleasantly. “I’d rather look at all these famous people in, in oblivion.”

Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, conservative foxtrot—I had never seen him dance before. Then they sauntered over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour, while at her request I remained watchfully in the garden. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.”

Daisy and Gatsby danced. I remember being surprised by his graceful, restrained foxtrot. I had never seen him dance before. Then they strolled over to my house and sat on the steps for half an hour. At Daisy’s request, I stayed in the garden and kept watch. “In case there’s a fire or a flood,” she explained, “or any act of God.”

Tom appeared from his oblivion as we were sitting down to supper together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A fellow’s getting off some funny stuff.”

Tom reappeared as we were sitting down to dinner together. “Do you mind if I eat with some people over here?” he said. “A guy’s saying some funny things.”

“Go ahead,” answered Daisy genially, “and if you want to take down any addresses here’s my little gold pencil.”… She looked around after a moment and told me the girl was “common but pretty,” and I knew that except for the half-hour she’d been alone with Gatsby she wasn’t having a good time.

“Go ahead,” Daisy replied warmly, “and if you want to write down any addresses, here’s my little gold pencil.”… After a moment, she looked around and told me the girl was “common but pretty.” And I knew Daisy wasn’t having a good time, except for the half-hour she’d spent alone with Gatsby.

We were at a particularly tipsy table. That was my fault—Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people only two weeks before. But what had amused me then turned septic on the air now.

We were at a table of especially tipsy people. Sitting there was my fault. Gatsby had been called to the phone, and I’d enjoyed these same people’s company just two weeks earlier. But what had amused me then now seemed to poison the air.

“How do you feel, Miss Baedeker?”

“How are you feeling, Miss Baedeker?”

The girl addressed was trying, unsuccessfully, to slump against my shoulder. At this inquiry she sat up and opened her eyes.

The girl being spoken to was trying, without success, to slump against my shoulder. At the question, she sat up and opened her eyes.

“Wha’?”

“What?”

A massive and lethargic woman, who had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow, spoke in Miss Baedeker’s defence:

A huge, sluggish woman had been urging Daisy to play golf with her at the local club tomorrow. She spoke up in Miss Baedeker’s defense:

“Oh, she’s all right now. When she’s had five or six cocktails she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she ought to leave it alone.”

“Oh, she’s fine now. After five or six cocktails, she always starts screaming like that. I tell her she should leave alcohol alone.”

“I do leave it alone,” affirmed the accused hollowly.

“I do leave it alone,” the accused person insisted in a hollow voice.

“We heard you yelling, so I said to Doc Civet here: ‘There’s somebody that needs your help, Doc.’ ”

“We heard you yelling. So I said to Doc Civet here: ‘Somebody needs your help, Doc.’ ”

“She’s much obliged, I’m sure,” said another friend, without gratitude, “but you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.”

“She’s very grateful, I’m sure,” said another friend, without any gratitude. “But you got her dress all wet when you stuck her head in the pool.”

“Anything I hate is to get my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once over in New Jersey.”

“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s getting my head stuck in a pool,” mumbled Miss Baedeker. “They almost drowned me once in New Jersey.”

“Then you ought to leave it alone,” countered Doctor Civet.

“Then you should leave it alone,” Doctor Civet replied.

“Speak for yourself!” cried Miss Baedeker violently. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!”

“Speak for yourself!” Miss Baedeker shouted fiercely. “Your hand shakes. I wouldn’t let you operate on me!”

It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy and watching the moving-picture director and his Star. They were still under the white-plum tree and their faces were touching except for a pale, thin ray of moonlight between. It occurred to me that he had been very slowly bending toward her all evening to attain this proximity, and even while I watched I saw him stoop one ultimate degree and kiss at her cheek.

It was like that. Almost the last thing I remember was standing with Daisy, watching the film director and his Star. The two were still under the white-plum tree. Their faces were touching except for a thin, pale ray of moonlight between them. I realized he had been leaning toward her very slowly all evening to get this close. Even as I watched, he bent a little farther and brushed a kiss against her cheek.

“I like her,” said Daisy, “I think she’s lovely.”

“I like her,” Daisy said. “I think she’s lovely.”

But the rest offended her—and inarguably because it wasn’t a gesture but an emotion. She was appalled by West Egg, this unprecedented “place” that Broadway had begotten upon a Long Island fishing village—appalled by its raw vigour that chafed under the old euphemisms and by the too obtrusive fate that herded its inhabitants along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she failed to understand.

But the rest offended her, unquestionably because it was an emotion rather than a gesture. She was appalled by West Egg, this unheard-of “place” that Broadway had created out of a Long Island fishing village. She was appalled by its raw energy, which strained against the old polite phrases. And she was appalled by the all-too-obvious fate that herded its residents along a shortcut from nothing to nothing. She saw something awful in the very simplicity she could not understand.

I sat on the front steps with them while they waited for their car. It was dark here in front; only the bright door sent ten square feet of light volleying out into the soft black morning. Sometimes a shadow moved against a dressing-room blind above, gave way to another shadow, an indefinite procession of shadows, who rouged and powdered in an invisible glass.

I sat with them on the front steps while they waited for their car. It was dark out front. Only the brightly lit doorway cast ten square feet of light into the soft darkness of early morning. Sometimes a shadow moved across an upstairs dressing-room blind, then gave way to another. An indistinct procession of shadows applied blush and powder in a mirror I couldn’t see.

“Who is this Gatsby anyhow?” demanded Tom suddenly. “Some big bootlegger?”

“Who is this Gatsby anyway?” Tom suddenly demanded. “Some big bootlegger?”

“Where’d you hear that?” I inquired.

“Where’d you hear that?” I asked.

“I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big bootleggers, you know.”

“I didn’t hear it. I imagined it. A lot of these newly rich people are just big-time bootleggers, you know.”

“Not Gatsby,” I said shortly.

“Not Gatsby,” I said curtly.

He was silent for a moment. The pebbles of the drive crunched under his feet.

He was quiet for a moment. The pebbles on the driveway crunched under his feet.

“Well, he certainly must have strained himself to get this menagerie together.”

“Well, he certainly must have worn himself out gathering this whole circus together.”

A breeze stirred the grey haze of Daisy’s fur collar.

A breeze stirred the gray haze of Daisy’s fur collar.

“At least they are more interesting than the people we know,” she said with an effort.

“At least they’re more interesting than the people we know,” she said, making an effort.

“You didn’t look so interested.”

“You didn’t seem that interested.”

“Well, I was.”

Tom laughed and turned to me.

“Did you notice Daisy’s face when that girl asked her to put her under a cold shower?”

“Did you notice Daisy’s expression when that girl asked Daisy to put her in a cold shower?”

Daisy began to sing with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper, bringing out a meaning in each word that it had never had before and would never have again. When the melody rose her voice broke up sweetly, following it, in a way contralto voices have, and each change tipped out a little of her warm human magic upon the air.

Daisy began singing along with the music in a husky, rhythmic whisper. She gave each word a meaning it had never had before and would never have again. As the melody rose, her voice followed, breaking sweetly in the way low female voices do. Each change spilled a little of her warm human magic into the air.

“Lots of people come who haven’t been invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl hadn’t been invited. They simply force their way in and he’s too polite to object.”

“Lots of people show up without being invited,” she said suddenly. “That girl wasn’t invited. People just force their way in, and he’s too polite to say anything.”

“I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” insisted Tom. “And I think I’ll make a point of finding out.”

“I’d like to know who he is and what he does,” Tom insisted. “And I think I’ll make sure I find out.”

“I can tell you right now,” she answered. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built them up himself.”

“I can tell you right now,” she said. “He owned some drugstores, a lot of drugstores. He built up the businesses himself.”

The dilatory limousine came rolling up the drive.

The limousine slowly rolled up the driveway.

“Good night, Nick,” said Daisy.

“Good night, Nick,” Daisy said.

Her glance left me and sought the lighted top of the steps, where “Three O’Clock in the Morning,” a neat, sad little waltz of that year, was drifting out the open door. After all, in the very casualness of Gatsby’s party there were romantic possibilities totally absent from her world. What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours? Perhaps some unbelievable guest would arrive, a person infinitely rare and to be marvelled at, some authentically radiant young girl who with one fresh glance at Gatsby, one moment of magical encounter, would blot out those five years of unwavering devotion.

Her gaze left me and turned toward the brightly lit top of the steps. “Three O’Clock in the Morning” drifted through the open door, a graceful, sad little waltz popular that year. After all, the very casualness of Gatsby’s party offered romantic possibilities entirely missing from her world. What was there in the song that seemed to call her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, unpredictable hours ahead? Perhaps some extraordinary guest would arrive, someone incredibly rare and wonderful, some truly radiant young girl. With one fresh glance at Gatsby, one magical moment of connection, she would erase those five years of unwavering devotion.

I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, and I lingered in the garden until the inevitable swimming party had run up, chilled and exalted, from the black beach, until the lights were extinguished in the guestrooms overhead. When he came down the steps at last the tanned skin was drawn unusually tight on his face, and his eyes were bright and tired.

I stayed late that night. Gatsby asked me to wait until he was free, so I lingered in the garden. I waited until the inevitable group of swimmers ran up from the dark beach, cold and exhilarated. I stayed until the lights went out in the guest rooms upstairs. When Gatsby finally came down the steps, his tanned skin looked unusually tight across his face. His eyes were bright and tired.

“She didn’t like it,” he said immediately.

“She didn’t like it,” he said right away.

“Of course she did.”

“She didn’t like it,” he insisted. “She didn’t have a good time.”

He was silent, and I guessed at his unutterable depression.

He was silent, and I guessed he felt a sadness too deep for words.

“I feel far away from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.”

“I feel distant from her,” he said. “It’s hard to make her understand.”

“You mean about the dance?”

“The dance?” He dismissed all the dances he had given with a snap of his fingers. “Old sport, the dance is unimportant.”

“The dance?” With a snap of his fingers, he dismissed all the dances he had hosted. “Old sport, the dance doesn’t matter.”

He wanted nothing less of Daisy than that she should go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had obliterated four years with that sentence they could decide upon the more practical measures to be taken. One of them was that, after she was free, they were to go back to Louisville and be married from her house—just as if it were five years ago.

He wanted nothing less than for Daisy to go to Tom and say: “I never loved you.” After she had erased four years with those words, she and he could decide on the practical steps to take. One plan was to return to Louisville once she was free and get married at her house. It would be just as if it were five years ago.

“And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to be able to understand. We’d sit for hours—”

“And she doesn’t understand,” he said. “She used to understand. We’d sit for hours...”

He broke off and began to walk up and down a desolate path of fruit rinds and discarded favours and crushed flowers.

He stopped speaking and began pacing along a desolate path littered with fruit peels, discarded party favors, and crushed flowers.

“I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I ventured. “You can’t repeat the past.”

“I wouldn’t ask too much of her,” I said cautiously. “You can’t repeat the past.”

“Can’t repeat the past?” he cried incredulously. “Why of course you can!”

“Can’t repeat the past?” he cried in disbelief. “Of course you can!”

He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand.

He looked wildly around him. It was as if the past were hiding in his house’s shadow, just out of reach.

“I’m going to fix everything just the way it was before,” he said, nodding determinedly. “She’ll see.”

“I’m going to put everything back just the way it was,” he said, nodding with determination. “She’ll see.”

He talked a lot about the past, and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was…

He talked a lot about the past, and I sensed that he wanted to recover something. Perhaps it was some idea of himself that had become part of his love for Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then. But if he could return to a certain starting point and slowly go over everything, he could discover what he had lost…

… One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees—he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.

… One autumn night, five years earlier, they had been walking down the street as leaves fell around them. They reached a place with no trees, where the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped there and turned toward each other. The night was cool, filled with the mysterious excitement that comes twice a year as the seasons change. The quiet lights in the houses hummed out into the darkness, and the stars seemed to stir and bustle. Out of the corner of his eye, Gatsby saw that the sidewalk blocks really formed a ladder. The ladder rose to a secret place above the trees. He could climb to that place, if he climbed alone. Once there, he could suck at the breast of life and gulp down the matchless milk of wonder.

His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.

His heart beat faster as Daisy’s white face rose toward his own. He knew that kissing her would forever bind his indescribable dreams to her breath, which would one day fade. His mind would then never again roam freely like the mind of God. So he waited, listening a moment longer to the sound of a tuning fork struck against a star. Then he kissed her. At the touch of his lips, she opened for him like a flower, and his dreams fully took human form.

Through all he said, even through his appalling sentimentality, I was reminded of something—an elusive rhythm, a fragment of lost words, that I had heard somewhere a long time ago. For a moment a phrase tried to take shape in my mouth and my lips parted like a dumb man’s, as though there was more struggling upon them than a wisp of startled air. But they made no sound, and what I had almost remembered was uncommunicable forever.

Everything he said reminded me of something, even his painfully excessive sentimentality. It was a rhythm I couldn’t quite grasp, a fragment of forgotten words I’d heard somewhere long ago. For a moment, a phrase tried to form in my mouth. My lips parted like those of a man unable to speak. It was as though more than a faint, startled breath was struggling on my lips. But my lips made no sound, and what I had almost remembered could never be put into words.